


with such abandon

by Mithlomi



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, I am shipper trash, Season 2 spoilers, d'art's grovelling apology to constance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:07:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithlomi/pseuds/Mithlomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she will keep the babe warm and he will hold her steady</p>
            </blockquote>





	with such abandon

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an idea/speculation for ep 2.03. So spoilers ahead. Unbeta'd because I'm terrible...

"Shh… not much further now…" A gentle whisper from the shadows, quiet and soft, barely there.

She can hardly blame the babe for his protests. For all of his short life, he has been confined to the palace, barely leaving the chambers set aside for him. This wet drizzle on a dark winter’s eve cannot be the most pleasant of introductions to the outside world…

…and with his fever burning still…

The men had stumbled out of the tavern and headed towards her, but pressed against the wall, she blends into the dark. And even with a crying child in her arms, they ignore her, too drunk to care or too preoccupied with the pretty young wench they’d pulled into their arms…

It’s not their presence that concerns her. She’s certain she’s being followed.

She draws the blanket tighter around the child in her arms before moving quickly down the street. His weight is familiar now, his warmth against her breast a comfort to her racing heart. As long as he is here, all is well…

A calming yet fleeting notion. For this is not her child. This is the Dauphin of France. It’s her duty to protect him, to ensure he comes to no harm, to find the cure she promised… and then return him to his mother’s arms. The Queen.

She will not break her promise. She will not let this country grieve. She will not watch her friend’s heart shatter at her child’s death. But more than that… she simply will not allow an innocent babe to perish when she might be able to stop it… 

Even if it means risking her position, her reputation, her life…

“Constance…”

A gasp as she turns at the harsh whisper of her name, heart in her throat and she holds the Prince closer. Eyes dart about the dark street and she cannot find the owner through the dim moonlight until he two steps from the shadows, sharp features marred by his confused frown.

"d’Artagnan?" The Dauphin cries once more and she instinctively soothes him with a gentle lull of her arms. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?” His frown deepens as he moves towards her, his own eyes searching the deserted street, ever the soldier, ever on guard and although his voice is as quiet as hers, a whisper through gritted teeth, his bewilderment is obvious. “What about you?”

His gaze falls to the child in her arms, and he softens, and she can see the realisation dawn. He straightens, and she thinks she can see a hint of fear in his warm brown eyes…

"The Dauphin has been kidnapped…"

Constance laughs, a small fragile sound and shifts the babe in her arms. “Not quite. He’s sick. A fever. And the physicians at court are pompous incompetent fools…”

"Constance," he warns, gentle and soothing.

But there’s a fire there now and she won’t be so easily dissuaded.

"I will not allow him to die, d’Artagnan…"

He blinks, just once, shifts back, lips parted as he studies her, holds her gaze. She will not falter, even as her heart hammers and her mind races because he’s staring at her with that warmth in his eyes once more and the barest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth…

"Then let me help you…"

\----------------------  
Considering how he has been roused from his bed by d’Artagnan’s incessant pounding, the apothecary is surprisingly calm as he opens the door. The Dauphin is wailing now, too warm, too uncomfortable and Constance cannot seem to calm him, despite the gentle motion of her arms, the soft humming of a poorly-remembered lullaby, and brow pulls into a deep frown as her stomach fills with dread. ”Please hold on, darling…”

It’s left d’Artagnan to speak to the gentleman before them. And with one simple phrase, the story she had been planning to tell comes crashing down…

"Forgive us, sir, to disturb you so late, but we are desperate. Our son has a fever and it will not break…"

For the briefest of moments, as d’Artagnan turns back to pull them closer to the apothecary’s gaze, their eyes meet. He’s tight-lipped, dark-eyed, every inch the worried father, and ever-so-certain of the line they cross with this made-up life he’s suddenly thrown them into. Her heart skips a beat, lips parted for a moment… before they both turn to the man, suddenly sure, both set in their determination to save this child.

One look. A simple, terrifying thing because it’s so full of trust that it’s seem so utterly ridiculous that anyone could ever break it.

And they both know what they must do…

The apothecary is clearly accustomed to late night calls and gestures for them to enter. Constance moves into the warmth and d’Artagnan’s hand rests on the small of her back. She says nothing, reveals nothing, but that hardly means the gesture is unnoticed. Once inside, his arm curves about her waist and she cannot help but press tighter against his lean form. They are husband and wife here, mother and father, and while her head screams for her to remember her place, remember her duty, for a moment, her heart can forget…

The gentle touch of the man’s hands on the babe bring her back to the present and for a moment, she is loath to give the Dauphin up for his inspection. Reason win through, overtakes the instinct and the apothecary holds him carefully in his arms. How many babes has he seen in his parlour? How many has he seen home?

She hopes and she prays and as her hands clasp in front of her, she cannot help but bring light to fears. “Will he be alright?” There was no need to force the desperation into each word, for the fear that plagues her is real. d’Artagnan’s grip tightens.

The man’s large hand is surprisingly tender as he covers the baby’s forehead. All the while, the Dauphin cries, mewling, screaming. “Why was he not brought to me sooner?” There’s no malice there; just a simple need for the facts.

"We’ve just come to Paris…" she speaks without missing a pulse. "From our family’s farm in Gascony." She notices the turn of his head from the corner of her eye but she cannot look at him. Will not. She already knows what she’ll see… Warm sunlight on a summer’s eve, a fire in the grate, a kitchen window and a child in her arms as he teaches a young boy how to handle a blade; thrust, parry, tackle, a bright burst of laughter and a boy suddenly thrown into the air in his father’s arms…

This is not their child. That is not their life.

d’Artagnan finds his voice first, and she thinks only she will hear the break in it. “Our neighbour told us of your work. Please. Can you help him?”

The man’s sigh strikes fear into her soul. “I do not know. The fever is strong.”

"So is he…" Soft words that barely break through the choked sob. And d’Artagnan has pulled her closer, a tender kiss to her curls as her eyes close…

A woman in desperate need of comfort from her lover. A mother and father grieving for their child. They are both and they are neither all at once…

"Then we must be quick." The apothecary carefully places the babe back in her arms. "There is something we might try. But we must watch him through the night."

"Please. Whatever it takes. We cannot lose him…"

And finally, she can turn to look at him. And finally, she’s glad she did not have to do this alone.

\------------------------------  
Whatever he has done, the child, at least, is sleeping.

But he is still too hot, soft, pale skin clammy, each breath too shallow. Constance takes up a restless vigil, watching each delicate rise and fall of his frail body as he draws in each gasp of air. And praying it will not be his last.

Fingertips brush lightly over his dark, downy hair. So small. So precious. So terrifyingly fragile.

If he dies, she will never forgive herself. They can punish her as they see fit. She will deserve it…

She hears footsteps, soft and steady as d’Artagnan moves from the door to take the seat beside her.

"No one following?" she asks hesitantly.

"No. The streets are quiet. Even the taverns have closed for the night." A heavy pause, but not for a moment does she stop the trailof her palm.

"You should sleep," he whispers.

"No…"

"I can keep watch."

"I can’t…”

He doesn’t ask again. Yet his gaze does not fatler, boring into her skull, as she prays once more, lips moving silently. She’s never been a good Catholic. She wonders if God will listen…

"Constance…"

There’s a edge to his voice that distracts her then and she slowly breaks her watch to gaze at him. He’s wide-eyed, warm brown hues barely able to meet her own, as he presses his lips together. He fusses, shifts in his seat…

"Say it." A command, even if it is in a brittle tone that fatigue and fear have left her with. She has, of course, learnt from the very best in such matters.

He finally gives in, draws a breath, has the courtsey to look her in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

Her head turns back to the sleeping babe, who still does not stir.

Of course he was sorry. He had been the moment he had said it. Those awful words. The ones that did not fit his gentle voice.

"You called me a coward…"

"Forgive me."

"You didn’t listen.”

"No…"

Her head snaps up, ice in her glare and a protest on her lips that he might dare to object now but he continues.

“…I chose not to listen.

She swallows around the lump that forms in her throat for he has her attention now. He’s leaning forward on his chair, elbows on his knees, head hanging low as he runs a hand through dark locks. She wonders if her own fingers could follow…

"You were… are right. I was asking too much and giving so little. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for being an arrogant fool."

Surprising herself, she smiles, small and quiet. “Athos’ words…”

"Yes," he chuckles.

They are lost for a moment then, in each other, in an easiness that eases the edges of the tension that fills the room. And slowly, he moves, on his knees in front of her, his large, warm hand covering her cold one.

"You are no coward, Constance." Eyes flicker to the restful child. "You are the very best of us all…"

She’s back in her kitchen, small and humble, as he tells her he loves her for the first time. Heart racing, head spinning, breath catching. And she realises she’s in love too, to this honourable, brilliant, bright young man who makes her feel as if she can do anything… and she can.

With slow, gentle strokes, he brushes her hair behind her ear, with more restrait than she ever thought possible from him. She leans forward, slowly, oh-so-slowly and when their lips meet it’s as if everything fits once more…

"I love you…" A whisper against her lips.

And this time, she can see he finally understands when she cannot say it back…

There they stay, hand in hand, in perfect silence, fingers through her hair, her head on his shoulder and together they keep watch over their Prince. It no longer matters that he is not their son, and they are not husband and wife. For he is still as precious as can be in their hearts, and this is still, for the moment, enough…

Dawn breaks through the murky window frame. And the fever with it.


End file.
